


Taking Care

by fallen_arazil



Series: Sex and Cigarettes [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, D/s, Dom Arthur, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, Sub John, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-25 23:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18712072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_arazil/pseuds/fallen_arazil
Summary: This blowjob series has developed something resembling a plot. My apologies.There are still blowjobs, though."You coulda got killed!""I'm sure you'd find someone else's dick to suck."





	Taking Care

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo ... yeah. I have no excuses. Here's this. Enjoy!

Dutch rode back into camp in February without his coat, and with his shirtsleeves stained red almost up to the elbows with blood that wasn't his. Neither of these things were entirely unusual—the coat could have been lost any number of ways, and for all Dutch claimed to abhor unnecessary violence, he also had a much broader definition than the average citizen about when it was 'necessary'.

No, what was unusual was the fact that he had ridden _out_ with Arthur and Hosea, who were nowhere to be seen.

"Dutch, darling!" Tessie immediately flew to him, all suffocating concern, and Jesus, _darling_? Dutch, as well as the most of the rest of the camp, barely tolerated her on the _best_ of days. Today was not the best of days; Dutch shoved past her almost violently, scowling, "I am not in the _mood_ for your _company,_ Miss Thurgood," before calling for Miss Grimshaw.

It was obvious the job had gone wrong, somehow. John crept up next to the tent when Miss Grimshaw let herself inside, because even with the flaps closed, it wasn't like they could really expect _privacy,_ could they?

"—in the tin?" Dutch asked her shortly.

"Well," Miss Grimshaw hummed, sounding uncertain, "maybe three hundred, but we need at least fifty of that for our next run to town—"

"I need it. All of it."

"The camp has to eat, Dutch," Miss Grimshaw replied dubiously. "I don't know what Mister Morgan or Mister Matthews has gotten themselves into, but we shouldn't clean ourselves out to—"

"Arthur was shot. Bad." Miss Grimshaw's sudden intake of breath was loud enough to hear even through the tent. "The doctor in town won't touch him until we pay. _Susan,"_ Dutch said sharply, though John couldn't hear what prompted it, "Arthur will be _fine_ , and we do not need to the throw the camp into an uproar over this. _I_ will tell them, once the _immediate_ issues are dealt with."

"I'm sure you know best, Dutch," Miss Grimshaw replied, after a moment. "Perhaps we could send some of the men out hunting, then …"

"I have faith in your decisions, Miss Grimshaw," Dutch said shortly, and then Miss Grimshaw stuck her head out of the tent to grab the tin that held the camp funds ... and looked John right in the eye where he was crouched by one of the tent poles.

There was a long moment when she and John looked at each other, her expression unreadable, John's frozen, eyes wide and heart racing.

And then, without a word, she ducked back inside, the tin rattling with the coins inside. "You just—you see to Arthur, Dutch. I can handle this lot," she said, firmly.

They came out together, Dutch wearing a new, unstained shirt, Miss Grimshaw wearing a determined expression, and the purposefulness of Dutch's walk ensured the no one waylaid him as he stalked straight back to his Arabian.

"Mister Marston," Miss Grimshaw called out to him, gaze hard, "how would you like to go do some hunting?"

So John went hunting, his heart in his throat the entire time, because what was he going to say? No, I can't, because I need to wait for news about Arthur, or no, I can't, because I couldn't possibly hold my hands steady at a time like this, or even no, I can't, because I need to get on my horse right the hell now and ride into town to make sure that Arthur isn't about to _fucking die?_

Arthur and John were brothers, everyone knew that. But they didn't actually _like_ each other, everyone 'knew' that, too.

He brought down a deer and two rabbits, which was all he could carry, and got back to camp, early the next morning, just in time to hear Dutch's actual _speech_ on the whole situation. Apparently, Arthur had been shot, twice, turning back into a gunfight to rescue a child caught in the middle—John had his doubts about how much of _that_ was true—and was now laid up in the surgery in Davis City. They were going to have to pinch pennies for a while to pay for it, and the fact that Dutch didn't want to hear any grumbling about it was not stated, but was heavily implied.

Opportunity had a doctor's office, and it would have been closer … but they had taken him to Davis City, which had a full surgery. Shit, how bad _had_ Arthur been hit?

The answer to that was: badly enough that it was five days before they brought him back to camp, and even then, they took a wagon to do it, Arthur laid out in the back like luggage.

John had watched Dutch and Hosea hover over Arthur as he stumbled to his cot from the edge of the camp, Arthur seeming barely able to put one foot in front of the other, either from pain or from drugs. Hannah immediately began fawning over him, trying to tuck his blankets in around him and fluff up his pillow—she had fixated on Arthur ever since their little _tryst_ , convinced they were _meant to be_ , despite Arthur doing less than nothing to encourage the idea.

Arthur tolerated her only for a few minutes, before grunting out something that sent her away in near tears. Miss Grimshaw came over shortly after to draw Arthur's tent closed, her glare warning against anyone else bothering her patient.

So John waited until after dark, before he did.

Arthur was dead asleep when he pulled back the flap, flat on his back like a corpse in a coffin—the same way he always slept, except this time he was shirtless, a wide swath of white gauze wrapped around him from his waist to the bottom of his breastbone. There was vertical stripe of red on the thickest part of the bandages, along Arthur's left side, and John peered over his shoulder at the silent camp, cautious, before he reached out to try to lift the bandages.

He needed to _see_.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Arthur's hand clamped around his wrist as soon as he touched the white gauze. He jerked his eyes up to Arthur's, glazed with sleep and pain, blinking at him blankly with his head barely raised. They regarded each other silently for a moment, then Arthur dropped his head back against the pillow with a groan.

"Jesus, the hell you want, Marston?"

"It— how bad is it?" John finally stuttered, reaching a hand out towards the bandages again, almost without thought.

Arthur laughed hoarsely, pressing a hand right over the red stain on the gauze when he did, like it hurt. "Aw, were you _worried_ about me, Johnny?"

John always had a visceral, reflexive response to Arthur's jeering, and now was no different. "Just wondering who got you Springfield if you kicked it. It'd be better off with someone who knows how to goddamn aim."

"'S why I left it to Hosea," Arthur grunted, "but don't worry—I left you a couple packs of cigarettes to smoke while you _cry_ over me."

John scowled. "You're a real asshole."

"It's been said," Arthur agreed tiredly. "Serious, John, why you botherin' me in the middle of the night?"

"If I bothered you durin' the day, Miss Grimshaw was liable to box my ears," John admitted. "I wanted … Dutch said you got shot acting like some kinda fool hero, riding back into a firefight for some kid." Arthur grunted but didn't reply, so John pressed, "is it true?"

"Dunno why Dutch told you lot that," Arthur muttered after a moment, closing his eyes. "There _was_ a kid. Weren't real heroic, he was already dead when I got to him."

John's stomach clenched at the thought. "Jesus."

"Yeah, well," Arthur sighed, "shit like that happens around us, don't it?"

John had never been good with words. What he said was, "I wouldn't'a got shot if I were there," even though it wasn't really what he _meant_. Arthur's eyes shot open, hot with rage.

"Fuck you—"

"No, wait, I didn't—" John stuttered, pushing Arthur back down on the cot when he reared up like he might throttle him, "I meant _I wouldn't have gone back_. Fuck, why did you _go back_?"

Arthur gave him an odd look. "Because it was a _kid_."

"You coulda got _killed_!"

"I'm sure you'd find someone else's dick to suck." It was a challenge—it was _always_ a challenge with Arthur—and John's response was to shove Arthur shoulders down against the cot and kiss him, viciously hard, and Arthur gave back as good as he got, fisting a hand in John's hair and yanking hard enough to hurt, biting at John's lips like he wanted blood. John pressed one knee onto the cot to loom over Arthur, the reality of being _above_ Arthur a strange reversal. It made him feel bold, feel almost _in charge_ , and he let his hands wander, sliding down Arthur's arm and across his collarbone in a way he never usually had the chance for. Of all the times John had seen Arthur unclothed, it had never been when he'd had an opportunity to _touch_ him. Every time they'd come together, Arthur had been almost fully dressed the entire time. Having skin under his hands was dizzying. He slid a hand over Arthur's shoulder to put a hand on his throat.

In the next second he was on his back in the dirt, panting.

"Get the fuck outta my tent, John," Arthur panted after several silent seconds, hoarsely.

John sat up, eyes wide, looking over to Arthur, but Arthur wasn't looking at him. He had rolled onto his side, back to John. "Arthur …?"

"I said _get the fuck out_!" Arthur snapped, and John scrambled to his feet got out.

*

"How's Arthur doin'?" Tessie asked his breezily, two nights later, as she sat herself beside him at the fire. John glanced over at her disinterestedly and turned his attention back to his can of beans, lukewarm from being set by the fire.

"Why don't you go ask him? Or you afraid he'll tell you off worse'n he did Hannah?"

"Just thought you might know better," she replied mildly, shaking out a cigarette, "since you two is so close." She held her cigarette between two fingers, raising an eyebrow at him pointedly. "Ain't you gonna offer me a light?"

John scowled, but handed her the cigarette he had between his lips to light her own off of, puffing deeply. "We ain't that close," he said while she did, because that was true more often than it wasn't.

"Oh, 's'at so?"Tessie asked, blowing her smoke out between them as she handed back his cigarette. "You looked awful close the other night."

John paused with his smoke halfway to his mouth. "The hell are you talkin' about?"

Tessie expression suddenly turned unbearably smug, her mouth twitching with a suppressed smirk. "Oh, for a criminal you're a terrible liar, John," she purred. "All the shit you both said to me, about me being a _slut_ and a _harlot_ , while you're a couple'a goddamn _queers_."

John flinched involuntarily at the word, one he'd never dreamed of attaching to himself, glaring at the snake of a woman next to him. "You best watch your damn mouth, Tess."

"I reckon I'll say what I like," Tessie replied, "and I'll say it to the whole damn camp if I want … lest you give me a reason not to."

"I'll give you a goddamn _reason not to_ ," John growled, leaning forward into her space, but Tessie just scooted back, laughing meanly.

"I know full well you ain't gonna lay hands on a woman. Your Dutch _raised_ you too well. Wonder how he'll feel knowing he also raised a pair of _faggots._ "

John and Tessie were so caught up in their own stare-down that neither of them noticed Arthur until his hand dropped down on Tessie's shoulder, making her jump.

"Miss Thurgood," Arthur said casually, as he stepped over the log and sat down on her other side, "let me tell you what's actually going to happen here. You and I are going to get on a horse and head to Opportunity, where I will put you on a train for as far east as it goes. If you object," Tessie flinched, visibly, when Arthur's hand tightened on her shoulder, "the only difference will be that you'll be tossed over the _back_ of my horse, and I'll be dropping you at the _jail_ instead."

Tessie spluttered at that—apparently she was bold enough to threaten John, but when faced with Arthur's effortless menace, she wilted. "No, no, I— come on, Arthur, I would never say a word against _you_ , I was only—"

"Two options, Tessie," Arthur cut her off, his tone dangerously even. "Train station or jail."

She chose the train station.

It was still dark when Arthur got back, though closer to dawn than to midnight, and he was absolutely _incensed_. John was still waiting up by the fire, and Arthur grasped him hard by the collar as he walked past without even breaking stride, forcing John to stumble to his feet and lurch after him, off-balance, as Arthur dragged him across the camp to the treeline, shoving him up against a thick oak once there was enough space between them and the tents.

" _That_ ," Arthur snapped, close enough that John could feel his breath, "was _your goddamn fault_."

" _Mine_?" John spat back in shock. "Did _I_ make Dutch take in that bitch?"

"You're the one that came and put his hands on me in the middle of the goddamn camp where _anyone_ could see!" Arthur snapped.

"You've done the same goddamn thing!" John replied, which was true—the night after he traded Tessie some cigarettes for a suck-job, Arthur had come to his tent to make his feelings on the matter clear.

" _I_ didn't get us caught, did I?" Arthur said lowly, shoving John back against the tree again.

John knocked Arthur's hands off of him. "The hell is your goddamn problem?"

" _You! You_ are my _goddamn problem_ ," Arthur growled, right before he kissed him, one hand curled around John's throat, right below his jaw, to hold him back against the tree trunk.

John's hands moved instinctively to grab back, curling around both sides of his Arthur's neck, thumbs against his cheeks, but the moment his hands touched Arthur's face he found himself spun around, chest against the tree trunk, both arms twisted up behind him high enough to make his shoulders ache.

"Stop _fucking_ _touching me_ ," Arthur hissed against his cheek.

John felt Arthur shift behind him, then Arthur was wrapping his suspenders around both of John's wrists, knotting the fabric tight to hold John's hands against the small of his back. John strained against the bindings for a moment, reflexively, when Arthur spun him back around—a creature of instinct, was John—before Arthur shoved him down.

He hit his knees hard on the tree roots, and, unable to catch himself without his hands, fell forward against Arthur's legs. Arthur was already hard, straining against the laces of his trousers, but there was none of his usual mocking, humiliating commentary—he just ripped his trousers open as quickly as he could, wrapping one hand around his red dick while the other pulled John back by his hair.

"You gonna open your mouth," Arthur asked lowly, "or you want me to throw you on the ground and shove it up your ass?"

John opened his mouth.

Arthur immediately shoved in deep, pressing into the back of John's throat, the tree behind John's head giving him nowhere to back away to. John's hands curled into fists against his back when Arthur pressed and _held_ , blocking his throat, blocking his _air_ , John's eyelids fluttering as his vision went spotty and his eyes teared up.

He coughed when Arthur pulled back a moment, turning his head away, trying to wipe his face against his shoulder. "You're a sick fucking—"

"And you ain't?" Arthur challenged, running his gloved hand over his own dick. He pressed the sole of his boot against the bulge in John's trousers, bearing down with a good amount of force, and John gasped out a curse, twisting. "You came to _me_ , that first time," Arthur reminded him, his tone dark, as he twisted his foot, John squirming under him, gasping wetly. "I never given you anything you weren't _begging_ for."

" _God_ ," John groaned, pressing up into the pressure of Arthur's boot, "you sonova—"

Arthur shut him up with his dick, shoving in again before finding a sharp rhythm, rocking deep, bruising the back of John's throat with every push. He wasn't even holding John still, Arthur's hands were pressed against the tree above him. John just rested the back of his head against he tree behind him, mouth open, eyes rolled back, straining up against the pressure on his groin and gasping wetly around Arthur's rigid prick, saliva dripping down his chin and tears dripping down cheeks.

He felt like he was in a haze, a trance, like he was nothing but Arthur's dick in this throat and Arthur's boot against his dick, an empty vessel useful only for being filled, and yet the anger, the fight, still skittered under his skin, making his flesh hot, making his belly clench, making his shoulders strain as he pulled against his bindings. Everything around him was Arthur, musk and cigarette ash and anger and strength and—

He gagged around Arthur's dick, involuntarily, when he came, hips twitching uselessly against Arthur's boot, throat convulsing around the head of Arthur's prick in a way that made the man above him curse, made him shove in as if he could possibly get deeper, and come right down John's throat.

"Fuck," Arthur muttered, shuddering above John, before he pulled back, almost stumbling back a step before dropping the ground, legs splayed out in front of him. John dropped his weight back against the tree behind him, muscles still trembling, legs folded up underneath him.

Arthur crawled back over to him after a moment, pulling John's face against his chest so that he could look over John's shoulder to untie his hands.

They both flopped down in the dirt after, panting and exhausted, John rubbing at the bright red lines around his wrists. He looked over at Arthur next to him while he did, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, before he reached out and put a hand along the side of Arthur's throat.

Arthur immediately jerked away, eyes hot, slapping John's hand away with far more force than necessary. They looked at each other for a long moment, Arthur's expression annoyed, John's oddly knowing.

"You're kinda fucked up in the head, you know," John said, mildly, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Yeah," Arthur sighed, flopping back onto his back to refasten his trousers. "Yeah, I know."

 

**Author's Note:**

> So in all my talking about how this series involves totally under-negotiated kink, I thought about how this would also mean an inability to express hard limits. So an element of this is John obviously figuring out that Arthur has a thing about being touched on the neck (in my mind, due to being hung) and ... yeah, the rest of it was just because I wanted to write something approaching hurt-comfort.


End file.
